Charron's Lot

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Source- Family Photo

The stone of the castle was cold, gray, and unyielding—much like the responsibilities that rested on the shoulders of Duchess Ebrada. From her high balcony, she looked out over the sprawling canopy of the Blackwood, a forest that the local peasants spoke of in hushed, superstitious tones.

To the village, the forest was a place of shadows and teeth. To Ebrada, it was where her sister Charron visited regularly." They are restless today, Ebrada," a soft voice drifted up from the courtyard below. Ebrada leaned over the crenellations. Standing near the edge of the moat was Charron. She wore her light grey brocade dress. A stark contrast between her vision and her non-human friends, which sometimes raised eyebrows among the court's people. She did not care, because she had decided long ago what was best for herself. Perched in a nearby tree was a Great White Owl, its golden eyes fixed on the Duchess with an intelligence that felt unnervingly human.

"The border lords are restless as well, Charron," Ebrada replied, her voice weary. "Come inside. The frost is settling." Charron shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "The stags have moved to the low valley. They scent fire on the wind—iron and ash. The wolves say men are marching from the north, through the Hidden Pass." Ebrada stiffened. The Hidden Pass was a secret known only to the ducal line and the cartographers of the crown. If an  army was moving there, the castle was blind to it. "Are you certain?" Ebrada asked, her hand tightening on the cold stone.

Charron reached up, stroking the owl’s feathers. The bird let out a low, rhythmic hoot. "The mice heard the rhythmic thud of boots; the crows saw the glint of steel through the pines. The forest does not lie, sister. It has no politics."

Ebrada looked back into the warm, candlelit halls of her sigil-draped solar. She had spent the morning arguing over grain taxes and marriage contracts, while the truth of her realm’s survival was being whispered in the ears of a girl who sometimes slept on a bed of leaves. "How many?" Ebrada whispered. "The squirrels cannot count past their fingers," Charron said, her expression turning somber. "But the bears have retreated to the deep caves. That only happens when the woods are filled with the scent of a thousand men."

Ebrada turned to her captain of the guard, who stood like a statue by the door. "Sound the bells," she commanded. "Ignite the beacons. We prepare for the siege." The captain hesitated. "Your Grace? Our scouts reported nothing."

"My scouts look for tracks on the ground," Ebrada said, looking back down at Charron. Her sister was already turning back toward the tree line, the owl taking flight and circling her head like a crown. "My sister listens to the heart of the land. Move, Captain. Before the iron reaches our gates." As the heavy bells of the castle began to toll, shaking the very foundations of the keep, Charron vanished into the emerald gloom of the Blackwood. She had delivered her warning. Now, she would lead the creatures of the wood further into the dark, where the steel of men could not follow.